


Of All The Ways

by therogueheart



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angsty Illya, Boys Kissing, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Especially Napoleon, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Illya Likes Kissing Boys, It Happens More Than Once, M/M, Mission Tactics, Post-Canon, Soft boys are soft, Surprise Kissing, idiot boys in love, idiots falling in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24778000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therogueheart/pseuds/therogueheart
Summary: Of all the ways Illya could have lured their assailants into passing them by, he chooses kissing Napoleon.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 17
Kudos: 293





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note there is the singular use of the slur 'faggot' in this chapter. It comes in the third paragraph after the quote **"check the alley"**.  
> I'm on a one-man mission to revive the Napollya fandom and I'm not even apologetic.   
> Tumblr: @therogueheart

"I _told_ you left exit was rigged" Illya hissed as they ran. Napoleon barely resisted the urge to trip him up, snorting a breath through his nose like an angered bull as he put an extra burst of speed into his run. Their assailants weren't far behind and the car was still a good way off. 

"I didn't see you risking your skin in there!" He snapped back between breaths, flashing his partner a glare as they ran down the street. 

"Oh, boo hoo. Cowboy had to see naked women and play poker. How _terrible_ " Illya shot back in return, strides visibly shorter to keep pace with Napoleon. The Russian held the hard drive tight in his fist as they moved. Napoleon had to admit that as far as mission locations went, a Gentleman's Club in the backlog of America wasn't the most awful. It made him grin as they ran, thinking snidely about the fact that Illya's last mission had been Poland. Cold, wet and muddy Poland. 

Illya's hand closed around his sleeve and jerked him so hard he almost sprawled sideways, scrambling to remain upright as Illya dragged him to the right. Napoleon hadn't even noticed him switch to the other side. "Illya, what are y-?!" He was cut off by a hand over his mouth as the Russian dragged him deep into the alley, shoving him against the wall just behind a dumpster. It came almost to their shoulders and Napoleon went to duck down behind it when Illya’s immovable grip twisted him, backing him against the rough brick of the building wall. The jolting motion was enough to shake Illya’s hand loose and Napoleon tipped his head back enough that he could sink his teeth into Illya’s index finger. 

The Russian snarled at him, low and near-silent, pulling his hand away to look at the dim indent of teeth and back to Napoleon as though he couldn’t believe what he’d just seen. “You-!” Illya cut himself off, teeth bared like a rabid dog as he pressed forwards, crushing Napoleon against the brick wall with his body. The American grunted, head tipping back against the scratchy surface as he tried to squirm free. It was like trying to fight a building, though, Illya's body hard and unyielding against his own as the Russian crowded closer.

“Stop. Moving” Illya growled, glancing at the mouth of the alley before he looked back at Napoleon, throwing one arm up against the wall so his forearm lay against it, shielding Napoleon’s face. “ _Trust me_ , Cowboy” the KGB agent breathed between them, and it was all Napoleon could do to give a muffled yelp of protest before Illya ducked his head, squeezing their bodies flush from knee to chest as he caught Napoleon’s mouth in a searing kiss. 

The American stiffened like he’d been plugged into a live wire, one hand fisting in Illya’s jacket and the other fisting where it was raised in the air, as though he was about to punch the Russian. Shouted voices came from near the entry to the alley and Illya kissed him harder, squeezing Napoleon up against the wall and deepening the kiss. Napoleon’s breath stuttered and he twisted against the Russian who jerked forwards, slamming him further against the wall like a warning not to move. His fist tightened in the front of Illya's jacket threateningly and the Russian let his tongue stroke over Napoleon's lower lip, silently begging him not to ruin the facade. Napoleon's mouth was soft against his own, lips firmer and thinner than a woman's but still pleasant as the Russian tipped his head away from the alley's entrance, free hand resting on Napoleon's shoulder.

"Check the alley!" Came a rough shout from their left and Napoleon snorted a breath, straining against Illya's hold. He raised his arm again as though to push free and Illya caught it expertly, shoving it up and against the wall. Napoleon's teeth caught his lower lip and sank in, sharp enough to send a biting sting of pain blooming across the skin. The Russian hissed and shoved his hips forwards hard, crushing the American further as he let out a low, jagged moan. Napoleon jerked against him with a huffed sound and moved his other hand, which Illya caught also, dragging up to meet the other one. The CIA agent gave an enraged sound against his mouth. 

A flashlight loomed over them. "Who the fuck are you?!" A voice yelled, light blaring against the sides of their faces. Illya ducked his head and squinted, shying away from it, squeezing Napoleon's wrists to get him to stay silent. The American was breathing so hard he was almost panting, eyes wild and round as he stared up at Illya with the very real threat of opening his mouth. 

"Do you mind?" He grunted in reply, forcing the smoothest American accent he could muster. A second voice joined the one behind the orb of bright light, muttering frantically. Illya's skin prickled and he shifted against Napoleon's trapped form, feeling for the weight of the gun at his hip. He'd have to be fast to reach it if this went bad. His best bet would be to pull them both down behind the cover of the dumpster first. 

"Its just a pair of faggots" the answer came back. Illya was nearly headbutted as Napoleon's head whipped around towards the man and he gave a low, warning sound, squeezing his crossed wrists again and crowding the American. Napoleon growled back at him, twisting like an angered snake in Illya's hold. His right leg shifted, bracing for a hit and Illya reacted on instinct, snatching Napoleon's wrists together in a tight hold and shooting an arm down, hooking around the toned, thick thigh and dragging Napoleon's leg up to his hip. It was harder to balance on one leg, harder to fight. Napoleon's eyes blazed like blue fire in the murky light and the Russian uttered a curse, ducking his head to silence the American with his mouth. 

"Fuck, leave them. We _have_ to find that thief!" The second voice scolded, the flashlight wavering before it disappeared, the darkness swallowing them back up as the two men kept running, their footsteps and shouts fading. Napoleon was breathing hard against him and Illya couldn't tell if it was from the running, the shock of the act, or the urge to punch him. Only when he could not hear the sounds of running feet did Illya pull back, mouth sore and swollen from Napoleon's teeth. He was surprised to find the American looked ruffled and stricken, a sight he had yet to see on the man, and he was so distracted he forgot to keep his hold on the man, folding against him with a wounded sound when Napoleon's knee found the tender space between his thighs. 

His lips formed a round little _o_ of pain, brows lifting and eyes widening as he slumped against Napoleon, hands dropping to his hips as the breath left him in a rush. It hadn't been a hard hit, not with the limited space, but it still sent a pulse of aching pain through his thighs and hips. Napoleon's lips were kiss-dark and his cheeks were a flushed, rich red under the murky light of the far-off street lamp. "What was _that_ , Peril?" The American demanded breathlessly, anger behind his words as his tongue peeked out and licked across his bottom lip, palms pressing flat back against the wall. 

"Good tactic" Illya groaned at him, sliding off to the side so he could curl up against the wall with his back to it, thighs pressed together as he stared up at the dark sky above. His mouth burned with the sensation of Napoleon's lips against his own, his entire front alight with the sudden knowledge of how the American felt squeezed against him. When he licked his own lips he could still taste Napoleon there. It was hard to ignore the way his blood sang and his hands shook as he thought about the kiss. About how much he'd liked it. It was a secret the KGB kept well, and were willing to ignore so long as he continued to be their best agent. It was even a secret they'd tried to exploit once or twice, when a mission called for it. 

Some time ago it would have been a secret he would sooner die for than have Napoleon know, but he supposed the cat was out of the bag now. There was no explanation Napoleon would accept without at least the _perception_ that Illya liked men. He shuffled and tried to stand upright, cringing. Any other man to put a knee to his balls would have lost the knee, but all things considered, he figured it was a shot he'd owed the American. "Acts of romantic or sexual nature in public make people uncomfortable. Look away" the Russian grunted as he pushed himself upright, smoothing down his jacket. At his side Napoleon breathed out harshly, straightening his own clothing. 

"We should double back and go the long way to the car" he announced after a moment, turning away. The American took two steps before he paused, looking over his shoulder. "For the record, there isn't usually so much tongue in a first kiss". 


	2. Chapter 2

Napoleon kept pick-pocketing him. It shamed him how long it took him to work it out. Weeks, he wagered, suddenly doubting every time he thought he'd misplaced or lost something in the company of the thief. He'd only in truth found out because Napoleon had outright admitted to it, brandishing Illya's favourite Zippo lighter with a flourish after watching the Russian pat himself down for a solid minute. Illya stared at the object with a shade of red creeping in at the edges of his vision. "Where did you get that?" He asked warningly, accenting thickening with objective fury as Napoleon flipped the lighter between his nimble fingers. 

"Your right pocket, wherever else?" Napoleon asked cheerfully, and tossed the lighter to him. Illya snatched it from the air and stared down at it, his mind ticking over steadily. 

"My ticket stub for opera. For mission in Quebec".

"That was me". 

"When I lost card ID for U.N.C.L.E HQ?"

"You really ought not to leave your jacket in the car". 

Illya opened his mouth, then closed it, fingers tightening around the lighter. Napoleon looked smug and cheerful, the expression clear even through the red veil that Illya looked up at him with, jaw grinding. Napoleon's smug grin began to fade as Illya stared at him, stance shifting a little wider. The American knew well the tells of the Russian's anger, and he straightened, taking a half-step back. "Now now, Peril. Its been a while since your last outburst" the former thief reminded him, rapidly realising the consequences of his fun. Illya's head tipped slowly, just an inch, and the American took upon a deer-in-headlights expression. 

"Illy-!" The name cut off with a sharp yelp as Illya launched himself forwards like a snake, taking Napoleon clean off his feet and to the plush carpet of the hotel room with a resounding thump that was sure to draw a complaint. Napoleon groaned as his breath left him but even as the room spun he noted he was saved from a ringing skull by Illya's hand, cradling his head protectively from the impact. He writhed as Illya fell atop him, twisting their legs together so that they rolled over in a scuffle. Illya shoved his arms down and pressed him into the carpet, going willingly when Napoleon knocked him aside and took the upper hand. It was immediately, painfully clear that Illya was pulling his punches, the fight nothing but rolling about like an air can in the trunk of a car and childishly shoving at each other. 

It ended with Illya atop the other agent, knees braced on the carpet either side of Napoleon's thighs. The American lay sprawled beneath him, head bracketed between Illya's elbows as they lay panting. The red mist was gone from his vision, leaving a crystal clear view of vivid blue eyes and parted, plump lips. In truth, he hadn't even been that mad in the first place. 

"You are not petty thief anymore" he chided the American, who lay boneless and pliant beneath him. It struck him with painful clarity the similarity between now and all those long months ago in Rome, laying uncertain and terrified on the carpet as a drunken Gaby mouthed her way along his jaw. Napoleon was blinking up at him, silent but unperturbed by their position, wrists relaxed and limp under his hold. They were not a hand's length away, panting each other's air. 

"No. Now I'm a thief with credentials and a team" Napoleon tossed back, easy even though it came out almost uncertain, grin faltering for a moment. Illya scowled and tightened his grip, raising Napoleon's wrists just to shove them back into the carpet for want of a better reprimand. Though he was rougher with Napoleon than he would ever be with Gaby he was still over-careful, still hyperaware of how he treated the other agent. Napoleon was well muscled, smaller than Illya but not a small man by any means, though Illya's own sheer brute strength topped Napoleon's. 

"You are agent. Respectable, high class agent. You are not petty man on street stealing wallets and-" The rest of his tirade was cut short by the fact that Napoleon's mouth covered his own, a swift and sudden kiss that swallowed his words. His entire body spasmed in shock and he tore his hands from Napoleon's wrists, digging his fingers into the carpet so he wouldn't hurt his partner when Napoleon's teeth skimmed his lower lip. It was their second kiss in a little over three months; and they hadn't spoken about the first. Napoleon had quite acted as though it had never happened, which was fine by Illya. Mostly. It was _tolerable_. _Preferable_. Napoleon not mentioning it was a clear out for Illya to not mention it. 

They had kissed for no longer than two seconds when Illya's world spun in a dizzying shift of gravity and he found himself on his back, chest heavy with the way Napoleon draped over it like Illya was a couch arm. The American was grinning, triumphant and broad, a thin veneer for the uncertainty and vulnerable shyness that lurked beneath. "You're right, Peril. Its a good tactic. Perhaps they ought to include the art of kissing in our training from now on" the former thief teased, amused as he rolled off the Russian and to his feet. Illya watched him walk away, sprawled on the floor and licking the taste of Solo's mouth from his lips. 

He let his head fall back, staring at the carved ceiling. Was this it, now? Another confusing and frustrating aspect to this partnership, this _friendship_ that Illya would have to work through? Much less the fact that kissing men was...Was illegal in almost every place it could be. Scorned and detested in even more places. Secreted away even in the few dark and hidden places it was accepted. And yet there was Napoleon, so careless as to kiss him just to win a pointless fight. The Russian heaved a sigh that tapered off into a growl, rolling to his feet. 

Now that he had noticed, it became a fraction easier to catch Napoleon in the act. Not always, but enough times for Illya to feel at least somewhat perceptive. The American never took anything of consequence - Not unless it was an amusing chance to annoy Illya, such as his ticket stub in Quebec. No, instead the former thief lifted him of lighters or chapstick, small things easily misplaced or left in one place instead of another. Illya supposed that was the point; keep him guessing, keep him doubting himself. 

He felt Napoleon's shoulder and arm bump his own, a small and inconsequential thing if not for how he felt his jacket rustle at the same moment. With a growl he shot his hand across his torso, gripping hold of Napoleon's wrist whilst keeping his eyes on the sandwich counter. When he was sure the catering boy hadn't let his tomatoes touch his sliced chicken, he looked down. Napoleon's hand was empty, intercepted by his quick reaction. "Hands to self, Cowboy" he warned his partner, gaze dragging up his body to Napoleon's sparkling eyes. The American only cast him a placating look, wrist flexing in his grip before the Russian let him go, attention back on the crafting of his lunch. 

Later that week when he reached into his pocket and couldn't find his favourite fountain pen he sighed, keeping his gaze on his work as he held out his palm expectantly. Moments later the pilfered object landed against his palm, tossed by a smirking American who gave him an impossibly soft, amused stare before returning to his work. He looked up once Napoleon was invested in his work, letting his gaze scour over the man for a while. Napoleon always looked at home at the desk, surrounded by papers, glasses perched on his nose. Napoleon rarely wore glasses, but for long hours in the office he'd usually put them on. They gave him a librarian-like quality that Illya found...Annoyingly endearing. 

He looked down. 

The next time he caught Napoleon, they were in Cyprus. The hotel room was over-spacious, which made Illya antsy for safety but did give them the benefit that they weren't cramped into each other's spaces. Or...Perhaps not, because Napoleon had thus far stuck to his side like a duckling. Where Gaby spent her time lounging on the chaise enjoying the open quarters, Napoleon constantly hovered nearby or sat obnoxiously close. Illya bore it without interest, seated comfortable on the thick couch, turtleneck switched for a loose summer shirt as he perused a news and tourism paper. Napoleon had teased him for the outfit change but even the American was in loose slacks and a shirt he left unbuttoned down to the delicate pool of his throat. 

"What are you reading there, Peril?" Napoleon's voice was low and soft as he leaned over the back of the couch and over the back of Illya, arms draped as he peered down at the paper. The Russian raised a brow and tipped the page so the bold, obvious title was even more bold and obvious. Napoleon chuffed a laugh, arms shifting to fold over the backs of Illya's shoulders. "The Top Ten Destinations? How quaint". There was a teasing purr to his words, the deception artful if not for the fact that Napoleon liked to take liberties. Often liked to make something riskier than it had to be. Napoleon liked to _push_. It was that lack of restraint and Napoleon's previous thievery that made him clock onto the brush of fingertips at the back of his neck, near imperceptible. 

_The necklace_. Gaby had bought it for him as a gag gift; a component to his cover of a wealthy businessman's son looking for artistic goods for his stately home. It was a simple chain with an emerald pendant, fake but still pretty. And Napoleon's current target. 

The man's other arm was still draped over Illya's shoulder, hanging down in front of his chest. It was easy enough to snake his arm out, to let his fingers curl around that vulnerable wrist and yank, using his body weight to haul Napoleon over the back of the couch. It meant twisting awkwardly so that Napoleon rolled over his back and down onto the floor, but it was worth it to see the way the American sprawled with a yelp, ungainly and ungraceful for perhaps one of only three times Illya had ever seen him as such. He let go of Napoleon's arm as the other spy groaned, letting his head loll to look up at Illya in faux hurt. 

"I was only asking about the paper" the American pouted, propping himself up onto his elbows and then rolling to his feet. "Miss. Teller; exhibit A of why I think he's a monosyllabic brute and we don't get on" Napoleon announced as he straightened out his shirt. Illya merely hummed, picked up his paper again, and stuck out his leg at the last moment so that Napoleon tripped over it and went sprawling again. It was entirely worth the scolding Gaby gave them for acting like children.

Four months later landed them back on American soil and Napoleon's sleight of hand had neglected to make an appearance (to the best of Illya's knowledge; at least where he and his affects were concerned) for at least a month. 

It was false security, Illya was sure of it. 

The man still touched him, still deliberately got into his space, but nothing went missing. Not even when Illya deliberately left things around or opened himself up to the opportunity. It was almost as frustrating as Napoleon actually taking his things, if only for the fact that Illya knew eventually Napoleon would make his move. 

He was, of course, correct. 

No more than a week after landing back in New York, they were being sent to Florida for a mission. It was a simple observatory mission; with the instruction to snoop where possible. Illya had already decided they were absolutely going to snoop; because the KGB did not do things in baby steps or half measures. At the hotel room he let Napoleon take the shower first, methodically going through all of their weapons and devices to ensure their quality. It wasn't that he didn't trust Napoleon could do it, he just...Well. Didn't trust anything unless he'd done it himself. That was the way. 

The door opened as he was setting down the last three-inch blade and he looked up, pausing in his careful movements. Napoleon was wearing nothing but a towel, clothes from earlier bundled under his arm and hair a fluffy, wavy mess where he'd run the towel over it. Napoleon was broad and well muscled, a steady regime and rich diet lending him a sculpted, lean form. He had none of the sheer brute strength of Illya but he was not weak; was not small like a boy. His tanned skin was still damp and water pooled at his collarbone, dripping down a pectoral when he shifted. "All yours" the American drawled lazily, before crossing into the other bedroom. 

The Russian shook himself from his staring and rose, gritting his teeth as he made his way to his own room. He stripped himself of his father's watch and his hat and jacket, leaving for the shower in just his slacks and socks. He kept his shower perfunctory, trimming his stubble where it had grown out a little and making sure his breath smelt minty. They'd be attending a high-society gala and it was important that every detail be on point. Coffee breath would certainly be noticed. He stepped from the bathroom similar to Napoleon, towel around his waist and dirty clothes ready for his suitcase. Getting dressed was an efficient and quick affair (with a tie, not a bow-tie not since Napoleon's comment) until he reached for his watch. 

His fingertips brushed empty bedding and he looked down with a frown, irritated that he'd not even noticed its absence in the first place.

 _Napoleon_. 

Illya scowled and stepped out of his room, gaze falling on where the other spy was finishing up his cufflinks. Napoleon looked good - His hair artfully slicked with gel and the sleek black suit clinging to every curve of his figure. He would both blend in and stand out at their destination, seamlessly slotting himself amongst the rich and the stylish whilst standing out for his beauty and charisma. The Russian furrowed his brows and strode into the room, tipping his head when the American looked up at him with a warm smile. 

"My watch". 

"What about it?" Napoleon's response was flawlessly casual, one brow slightly lifting as he finished adjusting his cufflink and reached for the wire to thread through his sleeve. 

"You have it" he stated, finger tapping gently on his thigh. It wasn't his usual tic, more just a habit in that moment, but Napoleon's crystal gaze still fell on the motion and catalogued it. "Give it back" he prompted, when it seemed like Napoleon had been distracted. 

"I don't have it. You must've left it in the bathroom" Napoleon shrugged, threading the wire through the gap of his sleeve button and wrapping it around his cufflink. Illya gave a gentle breath, running his finger up the side of his thigh as he resisted the urge to scruff the man and shake him like a misbehaving pup. 

"Cowboy. I know you have watch, don't make us late. If you do not give it, I will take it" he warned his friend, and wasn't that interesting? When had Napoleon moved from being his colleague to his friend, even outside of work? The American before him chuffed, gaze shifting to something almost challenging. 

"Perhaps all the times you've hit your head are catching up to you" the other spy countered, stepping just slightly into Illya's space. The Russian bared his teeth and shifted, grasping Napoleon's wrists to raise his arms out to the side. Napoleon's brows climbed and his head tilted as he regarded the Russian, who replicated him by stepping into his space, sliding his fingers around Napoleon's shoulders before skating them down to his wrists. It did not escape his notice that the American stood as he'd been placed, pliant under his touch. 

"Most people buy someone a drink before they grope them, Peril" Napoleon murmured as Illya ran his hands over the sloped planes of his chest, lips quirking up at the corners. Napoleon was solid and warm under his palms, gaze warm as Illya let his hands skate the broad expanse of his torso. He'd held the man before, touched him before, but every time he was hyper-aware of it, of how Napoleon felt under him. He ignored the remark, eyes raking over the man's form for everywhere he could possibly be hiding the watch, if it was even on his person. Napoleon's inner breast pocket contained a silk hanky and a single wrapped mint. 

Illya shifted, hands sliding down his sides, to his flanks, squeezing his hips gently. Napoleon had gone quiet, gaze fixed on Illya, tracking him with contemplative interest as the Russian straightened, put his hands to the backs of Napoleon's shoulders and dragged down, tracing the slope of his spine. They were so close Illya could smell the American's aftershave on each breath, could see the patch of honey that bloomed in his iris and each long, curved lash. Up close, Napoleon's nose and cheeks had the barest of sun kisses dusting his skin. His hands fell to the small of Napoleon's back and he hesitated. 

Napoleon tipped his head, brow arching and the corner of his mouth ticking up as though to declare he'd won. 

Illya let his hands flit, featherlight over the ample curve of the man's glutes, and then he paused. There, in the back leaflet pocket of Napoleon's slacks, was the unmistakable round face of his watch. The Russian let out a low sound and watched as Napoleon gave him a shameless smirk, letting out a hot breath against the curve of his neck. "Oops. How did that get there, I wonder?" The American's voice was low, breathy. Illya knew that Gaby was waiting for them but he still paused, fingertips hovering just at the crease of Napoleon's thigh. "Copping a feel before you've taken someone on a date is considered bad form in America, Peril" Napoleon hummed, leaning in even closer to let his head tip, soft lips just ever so slightly brushing Illya's neck, just above his collar. It was hardly a kiss but Napoleon still murmured " _three_ " and then jerked back so quickly that Illya was helpless but to watch as Napoleon strode for the door, hauling it open to reveal Gaby stood in the hallway. 

The Russian ground his teeth as he swiped up his own wire from the table, scowling after the American. He couldn't make a grab for the watch with Gaby there; not so boldly. He'd have to wait to pick-pocket it himself. His fingers were not as light as Napoleon's, but he could still lift wares when needed. 

Despite himself, hidden as the others turned their backs to him and began to walk, the Russian smiled. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the following tags for this chapter;  
>  **Blood and injury depiction/description.**

"You have to be quiet, 'Leo" Illya meant it to come out as a demand, but it came out pleading; begging for Napoleon's compliance as he held his partner up against the wall, gaze flicking down the end of the hallway. Napoleon was heavy in his arms, head lolling to the side as he panted, blood on his teeth when he gave Illya a weak smile. 

"You called me ' _Leo_ '" the American slurred, tapering off into a groan when Illya shuffled closer to take his weight easier, pressing against the gaping wound of Napoleon's torso. The mission had gone south so quickly that Illya had almost gotten whiplash, reminding him of their first mission, all the way back in Rome. Napoleon had been flanked by enemies where Illya couldn't get to him, fending them off with impressive endurance and skill until one of them had drawn a Randall combat blade and tried to gut him with it. The man had half-succeeded in dragging the blade through Napoleon's torso before Illya had come at him from behind, raising him by the head and squeezing with a snarl, thumbs digging in until the man had stopped kicking and screaming.

"You are _not_ allowed to die" he hissed at his friend, looking into the dimness of their secluded space to watch blood sleuth down Napoleon's pelvis. There was no way of telling the internal damage, but Illya was willing to bet it wasn't good. He shifted and Napoleon let out another sound of pain, face scrunching as he panted into Illya's shoulder. He knew he needed to take out the knife, staunch the bleeding so he could get Napoleon out and towards the car without the blade causing more damage from being jostled, but when he brushed the knife Napoleon gave a sound like a shout. The Russian twitched and cursed, looking over his shoulder. Napoleon would draw them right to their hiding place if he kept being so loud. 

"Cowboy, please. They will find us here" he tried desperately, trying to get a grip on the knife again. He managed to wrap his hand around it, but Napoleon slumped when he leaned back to try and get a better look and the knife shifted within him, causing Napoleon to gasp and gurgle an impressive spout of curses before his breath ran out. Illya snarled and shifted, acutely aware that every moment they spent here put them at risk of never making it out. 

"Cowboy, do you trust me?" He asked plaintively, grappling Napoleon's lax body to prop him up against the wall, using his thighs and hips to try and keep Napoleon upright without jostling the wound. Napoleon looked so tired, so in pain when he raised his head, staring at Illya with blood at the corner of his mouth. The American nodded the moment his eyes re-focused, gaze softening even through the haze of pain.

"Always". 

"I will get you out of this" the Russian promised, pulling out his belt as he glanced down the hallway again. The voices and gunfire were getting closer, and he shuffled them further into the darkness as gently as he could, tucking Napoleon into the corner, in front of them and shielded as much as he could. "Take deep breath for me, Leo" he murmured, leaning in close, close enough to see where warm honey melted into the rich blue of the ocean. Napoleon's gaze fixed on him, head tipped back against the wall as he complained and took a steadying breath. He cringed as Illya gripped the handle of the knife, adjusting his stance and hold. 

As Illya pulled the knife from Napoleon's stomach he ducked forwards, closing his mouth over the American's to swallow his yell of pain. Napoleon tasted like iron and copper, mouth sickeningly wet but as soft as Illya remembered from half a year ago. He could feel the grip of Napoleon's body as he pulled the blade from him, one steady, even slide. Napoleon's breath stuttered against his mouth and the American keened, pressing closer and grappling at Illya's shoulders. The knife finally came free and Illya broke the poor excuse for a kiss, ducking his head to tuck the knife into the holster at his thigh before he wrapped his belt around Napoleon's stomach, bunching his gloves up between the leather and the skin to try and staunch the flow as best as possible. 

Napoleon was sluggish and limp in his grasp when he hauled them through the building and out to safety, pale and losing touch with reality but still smiling so sweetly when Illya promised that he was going to live through this. 

"If I don't..."

"You _will_. Cannot split team now, yes? We are good together. Cowboy and Peril, like stupid show you made me watch"

"Laurel and Hardy" Napoleon whispered, breath hot against Illya's neck. 

" _Da"_ He huffed in response, running his fingers gently through Napoleon's hair. "Rest now, but do not die". 

Napoleon felt silent in his arms, cradled across Illya's thighs and held gently to his chest as the Russian kept a vigilant crouch, eyes and gun trained on their surroundings. It didn't long for their getaway car to arrive, and Illya bundled Napoleon into the back with as much haste and care combined as he could. Their driver, an U.N.C.L.E sleeper Agent based at their location drove like the hounds of Hell were on his heels, which perhaps had to do with Illya's threats for a timely arrival at the nearest hospital, or else. Once haphazardly parked, the Agent helped Illya to pull Napoleon from the back and carry him to the reception desk, where a pale-faced Nurse took one look at them and yelled for assistance. 

Napoleon remained more or less unconscious as they jostled him into a medical bed, eyes opening briefly when an anaesthetic mask was set over his face. Clouded blue eyes found Illya and Napoleon's hand twitched towards him before they fell closed again. Illya tried to keep a level, clear head, sitting stubbornly by the operating table. When the surgeons began to fret and murmur about blood loss he rolled up his sleeve and wordlessly lay his arm over Napoleon's exposed chest. "O-Negative" he explained calmly. "As much as he needs". 

The wound was gruesome but wouldn't kill him; the blade hadn't punctured his bowels or gone too deep into his gut, and the surgeons assured Illya as they wheeled Napoleon out that Napoleon would need several weeks of rest and light work, but he would be fine. The Russian acknowledged this with a curt nod, walking alongside the bed. Napoleon had received several stitches, antibiotic shots and a quart of blood from Illya, but he would be fine. 

He sat watch at Napoleon's bedside until the man blinked groggily awake some eleven hours later, squinting into the morning sunshine then lolling his head to look across at Illya with the faintest, softest of smiles. "I've said it once before," the American rasped, voice scratchy and interlaced with coughs. "But I'm actually quite pleased to see you". 

Illya smiled, secretive and warm, and leaned forwards to get Napoleon water.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Et fin.

"Two more". 

"No". 

"Two more, Cowboy". 

"Fuck you!"

"Pitcher, not catcher" Illya drawled back idly, and watched Napoleon's eyes widen, lips parting. "Two more, then done" he reiterated firmly, squeezing Napoleon's ankles reassuringly. The American's shock transformed into a scowl, reminded again of his current situation. Illya was a drill sergeant of a nurse and Napoleon was a brat of a patient, both of them clashing at every available turn. 

"I hate you" Napoleon muttered darkly, and Illya smiled. 

"You do not". 

"No," Napoleon breathed, staring up at the ceiling, "I suppose I don't". Illya let him catch his breath for a moment before squeezing gently again, and he watched the other spy gather himself with a grunt, brows furrowing and breathing deepening as he prepared himself. Napoleon's bare stomach muscles flexed and then he was pulling himself up with nothing but his core, determination fuelling his gaze. The Russian watched him curl forwards until his elbows hit his knees and then moved, leaning over Napoleon to brush their lips together in the softest of kisses. 

Napoleon blinked across at him with an astounded expression, exercises forgotten. "What-?"

"Reward. One more left, Cowboy, then done for day. Good job" Illya hummed back at him, carefully neutral. The American looked perplexed and half-cautious, caught out of loop for once as he sank quizzically back down towards the floor. It was a good look on him; pleased puzzlement. There was a moment when Illya thought that his partner would protest again, defiant and wanting his own way right to the very end, but after a steeling breath the American surged upwards again and halted, staring patiently at Illya. 

Expectantly. 

With the faintest ghost of an amused smile Illya leaned forwards and kissed him again, the same slight brush of lips that Napoleon countered by dropping and spreading his legs, hand curling around the back of Illya's head to drag him down as he fell backwards, forcing the Russian to brace himself over his frame on his forearms so as not to crush him. No sooner were they settled that Napoleon gripped him by the hair and pulled him closer, turning the whisper into a shout, lips sliding together like a key into a lock. Napoleon was warm underneath him, breaths choppy with exertion but kiss no less pleasant. 

"I still hate you. Just maybe a little less" Napoleon sighed against his mouth, blissful and soft. Illya smiled. 

"I will make reward more enticing next then, yes?" 


End file.
